


Southside Romance

by Whoareyou0000



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Boys In Love, Canon Gay Relationship, Comforting Mickey Milkovich, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Endgame Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Ian Gallagher, Hurt/Comfort, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich Happy Ending, Jealous Ian Gallagher, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mickey Milkovich Loves Ian Gallagher, Mickey Milkovich Takes Care of Ian Gallagher, POV Mickey Milkovich, Paranoia, Protective Mickey Milkovich, Sad Ian Gallagher, Soft Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Soft Mickey Milkovich, no breakup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26529919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whoareyou0000/pseuds/Whoareyou0000
Summary: Mickey looks into those reflective green eyes and understands. It’s not just that room or those test results that scare Ian. It’s the possibilities, all of them. All of the infinite ways in which they could fuck this up and lose each other again. Mickey gets that more than anything, because he’s scared too.He exhales, though, nuts up, and swipes a loving thumb over his boyfriend’s cheek because southsiders always fight for what’s theirs.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 3
Kudos: 154





	Southside Romance

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Shameless or the characters within. Warnings for language and talking of sex because it's Mickey. 
> 
> Author's Note: This takes place sometime between season five and six when Ian's meds are still being adjusted. We're going to pretend that Ian never broke up with Mickey, because Gallovich is everything, and Mickey never got arrested. Basically, this is an alternate take on Ian getting tested for STDs. Enjoy and please review!

Around them the waiting room freezes as if part of one of those obscure artsy-fartsy paintings on the stark white walls. Most of the chairs are occupied by asses, both thick and boney, with faces fucking ambiguous and depressing. They thumb through their phones or stare forlornly at their crotches like their genitals are to blame for all their problems. Hell, maybe they are if they’re in this joint. The stained white tile connects them all in an ensemble of nervous, tapping feet disrupted only by the occasional ringing of a phone or the receptionist with blank, defeated eyes calling out the next name on a long list of degenerates. 

Ian’s name is on that list somewhere, alongside Mickey’s. 

Across the aisle some old fucker with a receding hairline and smug smile slides his slimy eyes up and down Ian like a bum reading a menu. Mickey flares his nostrils and turns to observe his partner absentmindedly picking at his burned hand. The bandage has receded at the corner, exposing some of the tender pink flesh. He has no idea that he’s attracted an audience. It’s a common problem with Ian, one Mickey’s learned the redhead can’t help. 

Hard to miss a blazing fire in a room of full of dead trees. 

One snarl from Mickey and the geriatric turns his sneer back to his own dick. Then Mickey grips Ian’s wrist gently and peels his fingers away from the healing skin.

“Hey.” He speaks in a strained whisper. “Would you relax? You’re making me edgy, man. When I get edgy, people get shot.” Mickey nods forward. “Starting with that pedo if he looks at you again.” 

“Sorry.” Ian turns his palms down upon his thighs and pushes into his muscles until they make imprints in his jeans. It’s an all-encompassing sorry, a _sorry for fucking some porn star without a condom,_ a _sorry for being sick,_ and a _sorry for being me_ all in one. Mickey can’t take that, not now, so he squeezes Ian’s wrist reassuringly and looks away. 

Miss dead eyes reappears. “Flint?” The man on Mickey’s hit list stands, shoulders slumped, and wordlessly follows a middle-aged woman with a melting face and a clipboard into the room on the far end of the hallway. Ian raises his head to watch the door slam loudly and aggressively behind them. His rosy lips part and Mickey waits.

“No one who goes in that room ever comes back out.” Mickey squeezes the bridge of his nose. He hates this fucking disease. “I figure that’s where they take you for the bad news. Small and far away from any witnesses, so you don’t make a scene when you hear that you’re dying. It’s like a fucking death room, Mick, and we’re marching inside willingly.” 

“Jesus Christ, Ian.”

The redhead tenses and clutches the metal armrests with knuckles whiter than the chipping paint on the walls. He sinks lower into the chair and then his fearful gaze tracks around the room, searching for escape. Mickey pivots and takes Ian’s face in his hands, forcing those darting green eyes to find his until they’re the only ones in this fucking purgatory. 

“Look at me. Look! You’re fine. I’m fine. This place may be a shithole, but there ain’t no fucking _death room_ and these zombies don’t get paid enough to do away with any of us low lifes. This test is just a precaution. Us being responsible citizens and shit. We’re _fine.”_

Ian swallows and takes a strained breath. His cheeks flush with receding adrenaline. Pinpoint pupils expand and then his eyes glaze over in a blink. The paranoia temporarily sated, he deflates until it’s Mickey who is holding him up in the chair. The brunette releases his grip just enough and keeps a supporting hand behind Ian’s neck, his thumb grazing over the soft, stray hairs as the redhead uses the wall as a pillow. Ian bites his lip and stares down at his burn, the bandage loose and dirty at the edges. 

_“You’re_ probably fine. We haven’t fucked since the pills made my dick soft. Me, on the other hand….” 

Mickey closes protective fingers around Ian’s neck. This fucking disease, man. 

“You’re fine, Ian. He said he was clean, right?” Ian catches his eye and snorts. Mickey shrugs, recognizing his weak argument. “Hell, I banged Angie Zahgo. Didn’t always use a condom. That bitch spread her legs for the entire southside. She probably has a fucking wing named after her in this place. My odds aren’t great either.”

This earns a smile which Mickey eagerly returns. Ian scoots closer until their armrests touch, making a fart noise on the vinyl that causes some of the still lifes to look up from their genitals. Then he twists his freckled wrist until his palm is exposed and waiting for Mickey’s.

“I fucking hated Angie Zahgo.” 

Mickey scoffs and lays his arm on top so that their fingers can entwine. “Course you did, carrot top. Why the fuck you think I banged her?” 

Ian laughs, actually laughs until it splits his face. Fuck, maybe they will get through this shitstorm after all.

“Seriously?” Ian side-eyes him with a smirk that’s not even forced. 

The meds are working. He is getting better. Mickey sees it every day, sees him trying, sees him apologizing for the shit that his sickness made him do. He shrugs it off, kisses Ian instead, because it doesn’t matter. He loves this kid, _loves_ him with all of his being, and that’s why he’ll be by his side no matter which room they’re led into.

“Hell yea, man. She ain’t exactly my type.” Mickey smiles triumphantly and knocks Ian’s shoulder playfully. “You’re just so _cute_ when you’re jealous.” 

“Fuck you.” Ian shoves Mickey away and then returns, resting his head on a denim shoulder. Mickey releases the freckled hand and brings his arm up to encircle his boyfriend’s head, skimming fingers through his thick, crimson hair. 

“It’s gonna be okay. You’re clean.” 

There is a strained pause when another name is called. A tall, gangly girl about Debbie’s age, pouty Mexican kid on her hip, stands and follows the melting-face lady into the same small room. Ian tenses. Mickey digs his FUCK fingers reassuringly into the pressure points at the base of his skull.

“You don’t know that. What if I am sick? I mean, even more sick than I already am. Could you really deal with that? Fuck, should you?”

Mickey’s eyebrows almost touch. He tenses and grips his boyfriend’s sweatshirt hood to nudge his head up, suddenly desperate for contact, and faces those sad eyes with fire in his own. 

“ _Should I?_ What the fuck kind of question is that?” His pulse pounds in his ears, drowning out the next name on dead eye’s list and the shushing sound to their right. “You breakin’ up with me in the fucking free clinic, asshole?” 

Ian blinks, Mickey’s big hand still cradling his scalp, and does that thing with his face that makes him look like a goddamned kicked puppy. It melts Mickeys edges just enough to resolve his scowl. The redhead parts his lips to inhale and then whispers, resurrecting their bubble. 

“Fuck no, Mick. But we can’t pretend that things haven’t been shitty lately. I hurt you, cheated on you, and I’m not the person I used to be. I may never be that guy again. All I’m sayin’ is that you deserve better and I wouldn’t blame you if you moved on.” 

Mickey swallows that heartfelt bullshit, tastes the bitterness on his tongue, and then spits it out in an inevitable regurgitation of his truth, _their_ truth. 

“You say that like I have a fucking choice.” His grip relaxes and he smoothes Ian’s hood down gently and possessively, a contrast to his earnest expression. “Like there’s anyone else. Well, there ain’t. Hell, I’ve looked with my eyes and with my dick. You’re it for me, Gallagher, broken brain and whatever else. So nice try, but you’re not getting rid of me.”

The door to the _death room_ creaks open and the gangly girl pads out with tear stains reflecting on her hollow, pink cheeks. She hoists the tyke up on her hip, sniffles, and walks out of the clinic without a word. Mickey notices her lips curl into a relieved smile when she turns the corner to reenter the world. 

Finally, some fucking good news.

Then a hand is on Mickey’s head and he’s pulled into a desperate and gentle kiss. Ian’s soft lips caress his own, sharing warmth and oxygen, breathing life back into his tired body. That’s all it takes to pull him back in and secure his trust in _them._ When Ian finally retreats, he looks every bit like a lost child and a little more like his old self. 

“I’m scared, Mick.” 

Mickey looks into those reflective green eyes and understands. It’s not just that room or those test results that scare Ian. It’s the possibilities, all of them. All of the infinite ways in which they could fuck this up and lose each other again. Mickey gets that more than anything, because he’s scared too. He exhales, though, nuts up, and swipes a loving thumb over his boyfriend’s cheek because southsiders always fight for what’s theirs. 

“I got your back, Gallagher. The world may be fucking against us, but you and me, we’ve been through way too much shit to end up with some disease or worse. It’s our turn for a happy ending and we’re getting it even if we gotta take it at gunpoint.”

This calms Ian, who swallows and ducks behind a curtain of red. He wipes his eyes and emerges a moment later, lips curled upwards in a show of cynical pander. He squints a challenge at Mickey.

“ _Happy endings_ are what got us here to begin with.” 

All it takes is one stupid, corny joke, classic Ian, to warm Mickey from the inside out. 

“Oh, now you’re a funny guy, huh?” Mickey shakes his head, hiding a biting smirk. “What do you say, smartass, wanna hit the dugout after this and practice giving _me_ a happy ending?” 

Ian snorts, his face slightly flushed, and never looks away. It’s a small reminder of what they used to be and what they are becoming again. That mental illness isn’t going to be the death of them. It’s been one day at a time for months and now, on possibly the worst day of their lives, they’ve found the road back. 

“That’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me, Milkovich.” 

Mickey coughs a laugh and sends up a flirty smile, because, yes, he can too fucking flirt with his boyfriend thank you very much and it doesn’t make him any less of a badass. 

“That’s southside romance, bitch. Best kind.” 

A door bursts open somewhere, intruding on their moment and earning a well-deserved sneer from Mickey. 

“Gallagher. Milkovich.” 

Mickey exhales and meet’s Ian’s wide, terrified eyes with a reassuring smile. Fuck the results. They’ll be okay, Ian will be okay, no matter what those papers say. Then he stands and offers his hand. 

“Anyone tries to kill you, I’ll kill ‘em first. Promise.” 

Mickey ignores the alarm on the young nurse’s face at his less-than-discreet vow. They follow her into a large, sunny room just off the waiting area and lower themselves into a couple of wobbly, cold chairs. Ian clings to his side like a goddamned baby monkey. Mickey lets him, of course. Then the nurse exhales into a larger, reassuring grin and Mickey knows before she says a word that everything will be alright. 

They’re getting their fucking happily ever after. He’ll make sure of it. 


End file.
